


snow

by memitims



Series: chicago pd [9]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mild Blood, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-15 23:05:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2246700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memitims/pseuds/memitims
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this whole case gives mickey the creeps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	snow

It was snowing when they drove to work that morning. The city had already been blanketed by a previous snowstorm, but these flakes were lighter and they fell gracefully towards the ground. Ian was tired, and he slumped down in the passenger seat of Mickey’s car. Mickey reached over and brushed his hand quickly through Ian’s hair, a soft touch to wake him up.

“Don’t fall asleep on me, sleepyhead,” Mickey said. Ian nodded, but got caught by a yawn halfway through. “You were the one that insisted on blowing me again.”

“Fuck off,” Ian sighed. “You liked it.”

“Hell yeah, I did. But you need to get more sleep, Ian. Can’t have you nodding off over a corpse.”

“Dude.” Ian looked over at him with an exasperated expression on his face, and Mickey started the car and headed towards the precinct. “I am a  _professional_.”

“Yeah, at blowjobs maybe,” Mickey scoffed. “Not at getting enough sleep.”

“Dick,” Ian muttered.

“That was a compliment, asshole!”

Ian crossed his arms over his chest. “Mickey. You’re horrible at giving compliments. You tried to compliment Karen on her hair once and you ended up going off on a ten-minute long tangent about why red hair was the best hair color. That was real subtle, by the way.”

Mickey frowned and his heart sped up without his permission. “You heard that?”

“Every single word.”

“Shit.” He sighed. “Well, it’s true. I do like your hair.” There. He could give compliments, Ian was so full of bullshit.

Ian smirked. “I know. I heard.”  _God_ , he was a cocky son of a bitch and Mickey loved everything about it. He smiled to himself and pulled into the parking lot.

\---

“This is disgusting,” Mickey told Ian. 

“Suck it up,” Karen yelled across the lab.

Ian was poking around in a bullet wound of the victim in their latest case, and Mickey didn’t really have a problem with dead bodies, but this whole case had him on edge. There had been two victims like this so far, both been shot in the same place in their chest, right above the heart, but Mickey and Ian couldn’t figure out the connection. One of them had worked in a sandwich shop, and the other was a lawyer, and it seemed just plain random to Mickey.

The only thing they had was an ID on the gun and a vague description of the shooter - bright red jacket, white pants, tall, dark hair - but nothing else. Fucking serial killers.

“Yeah,” Ian echoed, digging his fingers around and pulling the bullet out with a victorious noise. Mickey glared at both of them in turn. Karen and Ian were saved from the brunt of his glare when Mrs. Fisher barged into the lab, her heels clacking loudly against the shiny floor. They all looked up and smiled at her.

“Boys,” she said, nodding to them. “Karen.”

“What’s going on, Detective?” Mickey asked.

Mrs. Fisher sighed. “I’ve told you a million times, Mickey. It’s Veronica. None of that ‘Detective’ bullshit.” Ian turned his head away to laugh, and Mickey thwacked him on the shoulder. Mrs. Fisher shot them a weird look and sighed again. “Got a lead on the case. Gotta show you something.”

So, that’s how Ian and Mickey ended up trudging through the cold January snow to an old abandoned apartment on the edge of town. Apparently, someone had called in an anonymous tip about seeing a guy that fit their description hanging around here. The whole place was silent, the snow practically untouched, and it was giving Mickey the creeps.

Ian looked pretty spooked too.

“Sure this is the right place?” he asked, his hands shaking in the cold. Mickey peeled off his own gloves and dropped them in Ian’s hands without a word. Ian grabbed them and smiled. “Thanks.”

“I’m sure,” Mickey replied. “No problem.”

They walked up to the apartment, the crumbling bricks stretching up into the air, dark brown contrasting the white of the morning sky. Mickey adjusted his vest nervously and turned around to make sure Ian’s was secure.

“Stay close,” Mickey said to Ian behind him, because Ian wasn’t a cop after all, he was a scientist and he hadn’t gone through the training, and Mickey still worried about that every time they went to investigate a case.

He started climbing the steps, Ian close behind him, and he reached a hand towards his gun in its holster.

A shot rang out from above them, and Ian let out a small cry of pain. Mickey’s heart damn near exploded in his chest. He whirled around in horror and watched Ian fall backwards, clutching his leg with both hands.

“Ian!” Mickey yelled, but the name sounded wrong to his ears, it was quiet and distorted, and he fell to his knees in front of Ian. Ian’s face was turning pale, his eyes wide and hazy as they stared up at Mickey, and Mickey didn’t know if another gunshot was coming, if he should move Ian, but he figured he’d take his chances.

He called Ian’s name again and tore his eyes down to Ian’s leg. The bullet had entered his thigh, and it didn’t look very deep, but there was blood. Ian was bleeding out on the white snow, the dark red of his blood making Mickey’s stomach queasy. Mickey pressed down, trying to apply pressure.

“Shit,” he muttered, pressing his fingers onto the wound. “Shit.”

Ian groaned weakly, and his eyes started slipping closed. Mickey brought one hand up to his face, clutching Ian’s chin with shaking fingers.

“Ian,” he said, and Mickey could hear the fear in his own voice. He couldn’t let that get the best of him, he couldn’t, not if he wanted Ian to be okay. “Look at me. It’s okay. Ian.”

He tried to look down at his leg, but Mickey tilted his chin upwards and said his name a few more times, his voice cracking on every letter.

The front door blew open. Mickey whipped his head upwards and his eyes caught the big red letters painted inside the building.  _Stay away, or next time it’ll be worse_ , they read in blocky letters, the paint dripping towards the ground.

Mickey couldn’t think about that right now.

His fingers were numb as he fumbled in his pocket for his phone. Ian was trying to take deep breaths, and he kept his eyes trained on Mickey like he was supposed to. Mickey was on autopilot as he dialed 911, his own eyes flitting back and forth between the pale skin of Ian’s face and the blood rushing from his leg.

“There’s been a shooting,” Mickey said into the receiver.

He answered their questions and told them the address and hung up. His mind was racing. He didn’t know what to do. The guy was probably still lurking, he could still come and shoot Ian for real, but Mickey heard the sharp screeches of the ambulance in the distance and figured it was too late anyways. They’d just have to stay put. This whole thing was so fucking stupid, so fucking dangerous, Mickey should’ve known better, should’ve told Ian not to come along, but it was too late now.

He turned his attention back to Ian, who didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore, but the sight of his blood smeared across the snow made Mickey’s heart hammer furiously.

He grabbed Ian’s face again. “You with me?”

“Yeah,” Ian groaned quietly.

“Fucking better be,” Mickey said. “Ambulance is coming. You better fucking stay with me, okay? You better keep those eyes open.”

He could feel tears prick at the corner of his eyes, but he didn’t cry. He could handle this.  _Ian will be okay_ , he repeated in his head, over and over.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

Ian shrugged, then winced at the movement. “Sorta. It’s like, numb. I feel numb. And pain. At the same time.” Ian’s voice was so quiet, his face loose in Mickey’s hands.

“Hold on, man,” said Mickey. “They’re almost here. You’ll be okay.”

“I love you.”

The words left Ian’s mouth in a small whisper and something inside Mickey clicked, like everything in his entire life was coming together, except Ian had a bullet in his leg and Mickey’s hands were covered in blood. There was probably a metaphor for Mickey’s life somewhere in there.

He almost laughed. “ _Jesus_ , Ian. You’re not dying or anything.”

“Why the hell I gotta be dying to say it?”

Mickey didn’t respond. He couldn’t. They looked at each other across the snow and Mickey knew he meant it, he knew that Ian was serious, he knew that there wasn’t any turning back. The words hung heavy between them.

The ambulance finally arrived, the high-pitched sirens breaking the silence. Paramedics rushed out of the back, propping Ian onto a stretcher and carrying him into the ambulance. Mickey stayed close by, his hand curled around Ian’s shoulder.

“Officer,” said one of the paramedics, a woman with dark skin and a kind smile, “Would you like to ride in the back or up front?”

“In the back,” Mickey replied, decisively.

They made Ian lay back on the stretcher and started working on his leg as the ambulance jolted to a start. Mickey took a seat next to Ian’s head and stretched out a hand to take Ian’s. He swallowed, hard, and looked down at the drab floor of the ambulance.

“Ian?” he said softly.

Ian squeezed his hand and looked up, forcing Mickey to make eye contact. He swallowed again, his heart beating too fast and his throat dry.

“I love you too.”


End file.
